


highway signs say we're close

by la_victorienne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Stiles' 21st birthday, and Derek has a present for him. </p>
<p>That's it. That's the story. There is porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	highway signs say we're close

Stiles doesn’t see Derek at all, the day of his 21st birthday. Or nearly doesn’t see him, collapsing on his bed after finally sending Scott away, officially bro-bonded out, managing to miss Derek looming in the corner of his room. When he finally rolls over and notices where Derek has chosen to park himself, he laughs out loud, a high pitched giggle that makes him sound sixteen again.  
  
“Hey, broody,” he says, beckoning with one hand. “Quit replaying your ogling from when I was in high school and come give me my birthday kiss. Or spankings, whatever. I don’t know if I’ll be very well-behaved for spankings, though, I’m fucking exhausted.”  
  
“Not too exhausted, I hope,” Derek says, taking careful, silent steps forward to sink down on Stiles’ bed next to him. “You haven’t even seen your present.”  
  
Stiles perks up, lifting for a slightly scratchy kiss. “Is it your dick? Did you wrap your dick in a ribbon? Because that’s an excellent present, man, I like your dick on all occasions but it’s totally better with a bow on, admit it.”  
  
Derek frowns. “It’s not my dick. Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to humiliate myself for special occasion sex.”  
  
“That was _once_ , dude, and they were all out of Little Red Riding Hood costumes in my size. I _improvised_.”  
  
Derek nods, and bends to kiss him again. “You certainly did. Now get undressed, it won’t be your birthday forever.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes and starts shucking his clothes. “Yeah, yeah, okay. If it’s not your dick is it a new toy? Are we going to try DP? Or fisting? Come on, Derek, please, give me a hint, it’s my birthday.”  
  
“No hints.” Derek is rearranging furniture, pushing Stiles’ armchair into the corner where he was lurking earlier. “Get comfortable.”  
  
Stiles sits up against the headboard and plants his feet, knees lifted, dick taking interest under Derek’s frank attention. “How’s this?”  
  
“Good,” Derek breathes, and opens the bedroom door.  
  
Stiles makes a strangled sound, and his hands move reflexively to cover his junk. “ _What_ ,” he finally says, eyes wide, locked on Lydia, standing in the door.  
  
She’s wearing pink, light pink, the kind of pink that looks almost like the color of her skin, and her head is cocked just so, strawberry blonde curls tumbling down her shoulders. The teddy is ruffled, and short, really fucking short, and Stiles hands are really not big enough to hide the growing problem between his legs. She’s wearing ruffled panties, too, and holy fuck, they’re sheer, and Stiles finally pulls his eyes away to look at Derek, who is looking extremely smug. “Derek— _what_ ,” he repeats. “Lydia?”  
  
“I’m your birthday present,” Lydia trills, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her hair and…other parts bounce with her.  
  
“You’re my _what_?”  
  
Lydia bounces closer, and starts to crawl up the bed, into the vee between Stiles’ legs. “I’m your birthday present. It was Derek’s idea. Do you want me to go?”  
  
Stiles looks up at Derek, who nods, and opens his hands. “It’s up to you, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles does not want her to go. Stiles wants her to stay right there for about an hour and a half, and then maybe come a little closer. She’s looking at him expectantly, her eyes dipping down every few seconds to look at his dick, peeking out from under his hands, and she smiles when she meets his eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he blurts, and pulls his hands away from his body.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Derek’s smile.  
  
“Oh good,” Lydia says, and puts her hands on Stiles’ legs, hair tumbling over one shoulder as she pushes them further apart, making room for her body. She kisses him once, sweetly, her lip gloss slightly sticky-lovely-strange, different from Derek’s hard, pinning kisses, different from anything he’s ever felt at all. She leaves a sticky mouthprint on his shoulder, on his chest, on his stomach—and then she’s sliding her mouth over his dick, and Stiles’ brain has shorted the fuck out.  
  
He fists his hands in the sheets, head falling back against the headboard. In between garbled sounds and fighting to keep his eyes open he sees Derek begin to sit in the armchair, and—wait, _no._  
  
“Wait, no,” he croaks, holding a hand out to Derek. Lydia stops slurping— _she’s fucking slurping_ , Stiles is going to _die_ —“don’t stay over there, come here, come sit with me, behind—behind me—Derek,” he whines. “Lydia, you’re doing—that’s fucking amazing, you’re amazing, I just—” _Want_ , he thinks. He just wants. He wants Derek behind him, wants to feel the roughness of Derek’s jeans and the softness of Lydia’s mouth, he wants to be present, he wants to come so hard he blacks out. He just wants, and for all the words in the world, he has no idea how to say it.  
  
“Okay,” Derek says, laying his jacket over the chair instead. “Okay, Stiles.” Lydia mouths down Stiles’ thigh as Derek manhandles him, pushing him up to make room for Derek to sit, turned sideways so he doesn’t have to take his boots off. Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him back to lean against Derek’s chest, and _there_. That’s what Stiles wants. That’s exactly what Stiles wants.   
  
“Go ahead, Lydia,” Derek rumbles, and Stiles can feel it in his own chest. Lydia licks out at the head of Stiles’ dick and then seals her mouth around the head of it, and Stiles sinks into the feeling, warm and wet and perfect.   
  
Derek’s rubbing circles into Stiles’ skin, his cheek pressed to Stiles’ and Stiles knows he’s watching too. “Look at her,” Derek says quietly, stubble scraping Stiles’ cheek. “She’s been looking forward to this, haven’t you, girl.”   
  
Lydia hums, the vibrations making Stiles’ toes curl. She pulls off with a pop. “I’ve been looking forward to it for a while, actually,” she confesses. Stiles knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop--she’s unhooking the back of the teddy, pulling it off, her hair only looking better for the mess it makes. “I’ve always thought you’d be fun,” she continues, turning to the side to pull off the underwear. Stiles feels briefly robbed, not being able to pull her panties off, but then he’s faced with the _realness_ of naked Lydia, climbing up his body and settling over his hips, and oh, fuck, this is happening.   
  
“Here,” Derek says, fishing a condom from god knows where, he and Stiles have never used them, and handing it to her. “Better safe than sorry.”   
  
“You just don’t want me too close,” Lydia says primly, tearing the wrapper and rolling the condom onto Stiles.   
  
Derek huffs a chuckle into Stiles’ ear. “Unlike you, Lydia, I can always mark him up again later,” he says lowly, and Stiles shivers.   
  
“Fuck yes, birthday sex twice,” Stiles says. He’s clearly not all there, and no-one in the room can blame him for that, because Lydia is _rubbing_ , okay, and Derek’s thumb is scraping the edge of Stiles’ nipple, and everything about this birthday is the best thing Stiles has ever known.   
  
Lydia leans in for what Stiles thinks is a kiss, and it is, but it’s not on Stiles’ mouth. Derek’s breath hitches as Lydia kisses him, and Stiles lifts his hand and catches hold of a lock of Lydia’s hair, letting it run through his fingers as she sucks on Derek’s tongue. Then, she leans back, and sinks down.   
  
Stiles is actually surprised he hasn’t come already, given the fact that he’s getting everything in his wank bank all at once, and all for real. But his body is giving off this perfect, subtle buzz, everything building to the same incandescent resonance, and it’s not really about the kind of urgency, the now-please-now-there- _now_ that comes when Derek is fucking him, or the all-of-a-sudden _yes_ that comes in the early morning when they rub off against each other instead of making any real effort. Lydia riding him is like a baseline, slowly leading him closer to the edge, smiling that perfect lip-gloss smile as he prepares to throw himself off.   
  
She tosses her hair back, her body tightening rhythmically around him, and he’s heard of Kegels, but never really considered what they could do for someone like Lydia, practically perfect in every way, including--especially--this.   
  
“Here,” she says, taking hold of one of his hands, sliding it into the minute space between them. “Give me a hand.”   
  
He rubs his fingers through the slick place where their bodies are meeting, finds the little nub of nerves that makes her say “Yes,” through her teeth. This part is easy, this he can do, flashbacks to awkward fumbling the year he ran away from the werewolves, got his hand down the front of Caroline Carter’s jeans and got her off while she sucked on his neck. He’d thought he’d known what a hickey felt like.   
  
Derek got to him not long after.   
  
Lydia’s movements have less rhythm, her body jerking in short, hard spasms, and Stiles rubs his first two fingers a little faster against her clit, open-mouthed and staring at the soft place under her jaw.   
  
“Mark it,” Derek growls in his ear. “Mark it while she comes.”   
  
Stiles doesn’t think, just moves, sucking a bruise into the spot, where he can feel her pulse racing under her skin, everything in her body speeding up. He can feel it when she comes, can feel it around his dick, can feel it under his mouth, can feel it when her nails dig into his shoulders and she lets out a sound he’ll always remember as _the time I made Lydia Martin come_. And then he’s coming too, harder than he expected, fierce and long and just this side of painful, with Derek’s jeans scratching his skin and Derek’s mouth biting into the curve of his neck. She falls forward, and Stiles falls back, and Derek catches both of them, petting Stiles’ chest with one hand and Lydia’s hair with another.   
  
“Good,” he says, and it’s all he says. “Good.”   
  
After a while Lydia rouses, pulls the condom off of Stiles with quick, efficient hands, picks up her underwear and steals Stiles’ robe. “Happy birthday,” she says, kissing him once before she bounces away to go god knows where. He’s going to have to write a hell of a thank you note. He says as much to Derek, still solid and warm against his back. “At least for her,” he specifies. “For you--is there something I can do to thank _you_ , Derek?”   
  
“No,” Derek rumbles. “You don’t have to do anything to thank me, Stiles. It was your birthday present.”   
  
And yeah, afterglow is fantastic and Stiles’ limbs feel all pleasantly loose and tingly, but Derek is doing that weird thing where he denies he had anything to do with how _happy_ Stiles is, and that’s actually the stupidest thing Stiles has ever, ever encountered in the few years now they’ve been doing this, so he sits up, turns to look at Derek, and narrows his eyes.   
  
“Take off your clothes, Derek. Take off your clothes, and lie down.”   
  
Derek opens his mouth as if he’s about to argue, then shuts it and frowns, shrugging out of his shirt, toeing off his boots. “I mean it, Stiles. You don’t have to do anything.”   
  
“I want to,” Stiles says, because apparently that is not obvious enough in the way his dick is twitching, trying to rejoin the party as he watches Derek undress. “I want to thank you, I want to be with you, I want to _smell like you_ ,” he spells out, not missing the way Derek’s shoulders tense up rewardingly at that idea. “Yeah. So come on, get on the bed--let me show you some of the things I just picked up.”  
  
He opens the bedside table drawer, slicks up his fingers, reaches back to tease himself open, just enough that there’s a little stretch when he sinks down over Derek’s dick. Derek looks wrecked already, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed, hands on Stiles’ hips, gripping because they don’t know where else to go. “Fuck, there,” Stiles breathes, getting himself seated, feeling the last curls of tension in his shoulders let go when Derek’s body slots into that perfect place. “She was good, Derek, Lydia was good--but she can’t do this with me, she can’t be this for me, not like you,” Stiles says. “This is what I really need, this is what I always need, you being here, right here, always good, always perfect. You’re always so perfect, Derek, you know you are.”   
  
He doesn’t, is the thing; Stiles knows he doesn’t, knows Derek still gets caught up sometimes in that vicious cyclic _not good enough not right enough not enough not enough_ from years ago. It’s a good thing he has Stiles to remind him.   
  
“Here’s what I learned just now,” Stiles says, breathless, thighs taut and trembling, as he starts to clench tight the muscles in his abdomen, clench and release, clench and release. “Lydia is really good at it--but this is what I can do.”   
  
“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, and it sounds like it’s been wrenched from him, a success Stiles loves to take credit for, every time.   
  
“Yeah? You can come whenever you want, Derek, I’m good, I’m good, I’m just here to thank you, I just want you to know how much I loved my present. Come on, Derek, you can come for me, you must have wanted to all this time.”  
  
Derek pulls him down, bites into his mouth as he comes, making that quiet sound Stiles knows so well, the one vulnerability he can’t keep in. Stiles smiles, pressing kisses to the rest of Derek’s face as he comes down, sprawling over Derek’s body, tucking his face into Derek’s neck.  
  
“There,” he says. “That’s better. Now you know. You did good, boyfriend.”   
  
“Don’t call me that,” Derek rumbles, but he’s petting down Stiles’ back, trailing his fingers through the sheen of sweat on Stiles’ spine, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ forehead. “Happy birthday,” he finally says, while Stiles is dozing, and Stiles smiles.   
  
“Thanks,” he mumbles, and is asleep before he finishes the word.


End file.
